


Dangerous Abilities

by besanii



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mutants, Angst, Anxiety, Gen, M/M, Multi, Mutants, Non-Graphic Violence, Panic Attacks, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:12:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besanii/pseuds/besanii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing he hears is hundreds of footsteps thundering around him, down the corridor outside his room and on the floor above him, followed by shrieking, crying and explosions.</p>
<p>His first thought is: <i>they’ve found me.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Dangerous Abilities

**Author's Note:**

> This is a really, really, really old fic I wrote almost around the same time as [tennis!verse](http://archiveofourown.org/series/54495) and when I sent in a prompt to Ryssa, which prompted her brilliant series [Mutant Registration](http://archiveofourown.org/series/37463). This is nowhere near as good as hers, though, it was just me having some fun.

He’s asleep when the first screams begin, lost in his drunken stupor.  The building is old, the walls thick and the screams are muted at first, until the sound of windows being smashed in and doors being splintered jerks him out of his alcohol-induced haze.  The first thing he hears is hundreds of footsteps thundering around him, down the corridor outside his room and on the floor above him, followed by shrieking, crying and explosions.

His first thought is:  _they’ve found me._

After that, it doesn’t take him long to throw the covers off and jam his feet into the shoes left by his bed, fear burning away the last traces of the alcohol in his system.  He has never been more grateful for his laziness now that he doesn’t have to worry about being dressed or remembering to pull on his gloves because he had fallen asleep before even getting ready for bed.

The door bursts open, showering wooden splinters all over the room and a man clad in black strides in.  He’s carrying a gun and is looking around the dark room trying to find signs of its occupant, but Grantaire is faster.  He slips behind the intruder and smashes the bedside lamp over his head.  He drops like a rock and his gun clatters noisily onto the ground.  Grantaire bends to examine it and scowls when he sees that they are tranquilisers.

_Of course they would._

“Grantaire!” 

Courfeyrac appears in the room, wearing an overlarge t-shirt, boxers and sneakers that appear to have been hastily thrown on, his hair still sleep mussed.  There is a cut above his left eyebrow with a thin trickle of blood running down his face, but he is otherwise unharmed.

“Oh thank god, you’re okay!” Courfeyrac grabs his arm.

“Where are the others?”

“Marius has Cosette and Eponine – they’re outside, unharmed.”  Their eyes dart towards the open door, watching the students rush by in swarms.  “Joly and Bossuet are helping the teachers take care of the injured.  Last I saw, Bahorel was taking out a group of them on the girl’s floor.”

They flatten themselves against the wall and Courfeyrac sticks his head outside to check the situation.  He quickly ducks back inside.

“Okay, I see Combeferre,” he sighs in relief.  “Most of the students on this floor have cleared out already – it’s just us now.  I was told to get you to safety, so  _let’s go_.” 

Grantaire looks at his proffered hand dubiously.  The last time Courfeyrac tried to teleport with another object in his hand, he had reappeared with only half of it.  At his hesitation, Courfeyrac gives an irritated huff and grabs his elbow.

“Have a little faith, R,” he mutters, closing his eyes.

Grantaire wants to make a sarcastic comeback, but the world is pulled out from under his feet and he’s falling – only to hit solid ground a second later.  His legs buckle and he lands on his hands and knees on the grass that has appeared underneath them.  He takes in his surroundings shakily and sees that they are on the front lawns in front of the school and there’s Feuilly and Professor Valjean erecting a large tent around where Joly and the other students with healing abilities are busy taking care of injured students.

“You okay?” Courfeyrac pants, bracing himself on his knees.  When Grantaire nods at him, he straightens.  “Okay – okay, good, just stay here.  I’m going back for Combeferre.”

“Wait!  Where’s Enj –” but Courfeyrac’s gone before Grantaire gets to finish his sentence and Gavroche is by his side.

“Grantaire, you’re okay!”  The boy helps him to his feet.  “We were getting worried about you…”

The rest of his sentence is cut off with a strangled gasp and his whole body goes rigid.  Horror dawns on Grantaire’s face as he sees the glint of metal from the gun pointed at the boy’s back.  Gavroche falls to the ground, twitching.

“You  _bastard_!”

The cry is torn from his throat and before he can control himself, Grantaire is ripping off his gloves and charging – leaping over Gavroche’s prone form towards the sniper in the bushes behind them.  His right hand closes over the man’s throat, his fingers finding the sliver of exposed flesh between shirt and mask.  He feels the now-familiar rush under his own skin, a shadow that races through his fingers and into the man’s throat, and seconds later he feels the body slacken.

There are more screams and enraged shouts as he drops the body unceremoniously onto the ground.  Blood is roaring in his ears and his friends’ voices are distant echoes, but he feels the hand closing on his shoulder and instantly realises what he’s just done.

He wants to be sick, but he is distracted by something being dropped into his lap.  He stares at it for a long moment.

His gloves.

“It’s alright Grantaire,” a soft voice murmurs.  A cool hand rests on his cheek.  “Calm down.”

The roaring in his head gradually recedes and his vision clears.  Cosette’s face comes swimming into view.  Her long, golden hair is wild around her shoulders and there are streaks of dirt over her face and on her pyjamas, but her eyes are bright as he is filled with a strange sense of calm.  He shudders and pulls away from her touch and she stands back as he pulls his gloves back on.

“Gavroche is okay,” she tells him and her voice is like a balm.  “He’s just unconscious.  Joly’s got him.”

She nods to someone over his shoulder and he feels strong hands under his arms, hauling him to his feet.  He doesn’t need to look to know the owner of that strength.

“Come on, son, let’s get you out of here,” Professor Valjean’s voice says gruffly.

Between the two of them, Valjean and Cosette manage to get Grantaire over to the tent, where he is immediately wrapped in a large towel.  He doesn’t notice he’s trembling until Eponine starts rubbing his arms vigorously, and when he finally does notice, his teeth are chattering.  Eponine shushes him when he tries to speak.

“You’re okay, we’re all okay,” she tells him firmly.  “The bastards who did this will  _not_  get away with it.”

He fights the strange stillness of Cosette’s power, biting on his lip hard enough to draw blood.  The jolt of pain is like a bucket of ice water and is enough to shock him back to his senses.

“… _me_ ,” he croaks.  Eponine raises her eyebrows in confusion, so he tries again.  “They’re trying to find _me_.”

She’s waving Cosette over, but he can’t afford to be sedated again – he needs them to  _know_.

“They know about me,” he says desperately, clutching at the towel with his gloved hands.  “They know I’m dangerous.”

They’re all looking at him, expressions guarded.  By this time, Courfeyrac has returned with Combeferre in tow, and Bahorel, Jehan and Marius quickly join them.  Jehan has been taken over by the flowers he has woven into his braid, the stems stretching and curling around his shoulders and hair like a long whip, thin tendrils wrapping snugly around his arms and hands.  Bahorel’s clothes are singed and he sports burns on his legs, which Joly was currently fussing over.  Marius is unharmed, save for the furrowed brows that give away his headache.

It’s Combeferre who speaks.

“They’ve come after you before,” he says.  Grantaire would be angry with him for picking the thoughts out of his head, but he can’t bring himself to move.  “That’s why you came here.”

He nods.

“They’re not getting you,” a new voice says.

The group parts and Enjolras comes forward.  His blonde hair is matted with blood and his shirt is torn at the shoulder, but his eyes are burning with fury.  Grantaire can’t tear his eyes away.

“The school is neutral ground.  Any hostile movements against this place and the surrounding areas can be viewed as a violation of the Treaty.  Eponine,” he addresses her, but his eyes never leave Grantaire’s.  “I need a distraction – something loud and flashy, preferably – I want their full attention.”

“I’m on it.”  She gives Grantaire’s shoulders one last pat and nods to Bahorel.  “Wanna help?”

“You bet.”  He’s grinning as he follows her out of the tent.

The group disperses one by one as Enjolras continues to give out orders.  When they are the only ones left, Enjolras comes to kneel in front of Grantaire, who stares back at him in silence.

“Grantaire.”

Grantaire can  _hear_  him, but he can’t make his throat work and his jaw feels like it’s been cemented down.  Enjolras sighs.  When he next speaks, his voice rings oddly in Grantaire’s ears and echoes through his body.

“Grantaire,  _attend_.”

And Grantaire does.  He sits a little straighter, squaring his shoulders, his expression suddenly alert.  Enjolras waits for him to speak.

“Enjolras,” he rasps.  “Enjolras…I –  _I killed him_.”

“I know, Grantaire.”  He says it without judgement and Grantaire is relieved to know he understands.  “You did the right thing.”

It’s not absolution Enjolras offers, it’s affirmation.  He  _approves_.  There is a fierce pride in his eyes as he watches Grantaire, huddled on the ground in front of him.  His whole countenance is bathed in a righteous fury and Grantaire has never seen him so beautiful and terrible to behold.

“They have done enough,” Enjolras says.  “They will not lay a finger on you.  I promise.”

Grantaire nods and lets Enjolras pull him to his feet.  As they do so, there is an earth-shattering crack of thunder, accompanied by a flash of lightning and the night sky above the school is bathed in fire.  Grantaire can  _feel_  the sheer ferocity of Enjolras’ joy where their hands meet and he himself silently applauds Eponine and Bahorel’s bit of showmanship.  A tense silence descends upon them when the light fades and all signs of activity dies.

Enjolras turns to him with a smile of sheer ecstasy that sends a thrill of terror down his spine.

“ _It is time_.”

 

-

 

 

The battle has come to a standstill in the wake of the explosion.  Bahorel and Eponine’s nods confirm that all the remaining students have been safely evacuated; Joly and Cosette guard the injured.  Enjolras acknowledges them with a subtle incline of his head and taps Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Marius on their shoulders as he and Grantaire pass by on their way to the marble steps leading into the Entrance Hall.  They fall into step behind him without a word.

Grantaire sees that his friends have been busy.  The Entrance Hall is shielded with a wall of invisible power, in which Bossuet opens up a doorway for them.  There are close to forty men clad in black in the centre of the hall, bound together by thick vines and contained in a small circle by a barricade of furniture.   Jehan and Feuilly stand at the perimeter, guarding the prisoners and Enjolras clasp their hands briefly as he walks by.

“That’s all of them, Enjolras,” Combeferre says, his gaze focused on one particular man.  He points him out.  “He’s the leader.”

Enjolras nods to Jehan and the other boy waves his hand.  The vines that are binding the leader to the rest of the group relax their grip enough for him break free.  He stands, glaring around at all of them before focusing on Enjolras.

“Who sent you?” Enjolras asks him softly.

“I’m not going to tell you freaks  _anything_ ,” he snarls.

“True Gene,” Combeferre speaks up from his place at Enjolras’ shoulder.

Their group visibly tenses.  True Gene is the most outspoken anti-mutant movement, with not-so-secret backings from several powerful political figures, active in the country.  Those same political figures that were currently trying to pass a Bill to instate mandatory registration and tracking of their people, as well as the confinement of those who were labelled as  _dangerous abilities_.

“Why are you here?” Enjolras continues, his eyes boring into his target.  Again, Combeferre provides the answer when the man refuses to speak.

“The capture and subjugation of Subject 13: Pluto.”

His eyes slide over to Grantaire, who is trembling where he stands.  The corner of Enjolras’ lips curls up into a smirk.

“And if we refuse?”

They can all sense the fear running through the group of soldiers – no, not soldiers, more  _mercenaries_ – at the thinly veiled threat in Enjolras’ tone and know that the only thing keeping the leader talking is sheer bravado.  Despite the fact that they have just overpowered forty grown men armed with guns, he still sees them as children.

“Kill on sight.”  And he lunges at Enjolras, reaching into his belt –

_Big mistake._

He stops about a metre short of Enjolras and gapes down at the ground below him.  Jehan yanks his outstretched hand downwards and the man is hitting the floor, hard, at Enjolras’ feet.  The gun he had pulled out from his belt is knocked from his hand and clatters harmlessly away.  Enjolras looks down at him in disdain.

“I don’t think you realise what we’re capable of,” he tells him.  He crouches down to stare the man in the face.  “Don’t underestimate us.”

The vines wrapped around the man’s arms and legs slither away from his body again at a turn of Jehan’s wrist.  He scrambles as far away from Enjolras as he can get and ends up with his back pressed against the wall of furniture that surrounds his subordinates.

“He’s dangerous,” he sneers, glaring at Grantaire.  “He’ll kill everyone – all of  _you_  – if he’s not dealt with properly.  We’re protecting the world from the likes of  _him_.”

Of everyone in their group, Grantaire is the last one they expected to snap.  But snap he does and he springs forward with a cry, crushing the man’s windpipe in his gloved hand before anyone can stop him.  He is a breath away from finishing the kill –

“ _Grantaire._ ”

The strength drains from his arms when Enjolras’ soft command reaches his ears.  The man slumps to the ground with a shudder and a pained gasp, grasping at his throat.  Grantaire steps away from him, head bowed and trembling.  Combeferre pulls him back and keeps a steadying arm around his shoulders as he watches Enjolras.  The careful composure is gone, replaced by a rage that is almost palpable as it consumes him.

“My friends,” he croons.  “We have reached a pivotal point in our battle for freedom.  For a long time, we have been watching and waiting for our chance – a chance to prove to the world that we deserve to live here as  _equals_.  We have tried again and again to show them that mutants and people can coexist peacefully, but we have been met with aggression and suppression of our voices, our safety and that of our loved ones, each time.”

The soldiers huddle closer together when he walks toward them.  They are frightened of Enjolras, who is akin to a god bound in human form, ready to burst forth and smite them where they lie.  Combeferre sees him through their eyes, in their minds, through the haze that settles within them with Enjolras’ voice.  He is both beautiful and terrible and they regard him with a mixture of reverence and abhorrence.

The almost manic smile that twists his lips turns cold and brittle.

“They know what we can achieve, given the chance – they  _fear_  it,” he continues.  His voice drops to a whisper, but it reverberates around the flagstones, amplified by his power.  “They seek to eradicate those of us who are perceived threats and make examples of them for the others.  And we could fight fire with fire, my friends, and show them  _exactly what we can do_.”

He turns to look around at each of his friends, his comrades.  They are all following his every movement, listening attentively, riveted by his words.  Bahorel’s right hand flexes sporadically, little bursts of flame shooting from his open palm, ready to attack at a moment’s notice.  Jehan’s shoulders are set, ready to spring into action and crush their prisoners.  Eponine’s eyes are wild like storm-tossed seas and an invisible breeze rustles the waves of her hair.  Marius and Feuilly are beside her, standing on the precipice of their own power.  Bossuet has a hand on the edge of the open door, holding the shield around them in place to prevent escape.  Combeferre and Courfeyrac stand behind him, close enough to touch, ready to defend.  He looks around at them and sees conviction.

He turns, lastly, to Grantaire.

What he sees is not the conviction, the absolute belief in their cause that the others have.  He looks at Grantaire and sees reverence.

There is also fear.

Enjolras believes wholeheartedly in equality for all and he will put his life on the line in a heartbeat to ensure that his fellow mutants are accorded the rights they deserve in society.  He knows, he  _sees_ , the oppression of his people and he fights for a better life for all of them.  But above all, he fights to protect people like Grantaire, shunned and branded by the world as  _dangerous_  because of something he could not choose nor control.  And yet, seeing him the way he is now, Grantaire is  _afraid of him_.

He keeps his eyes trained on Grantaire as he speaks.

“But we won’t.”  Surprise seeps into Grantaire’s eyes and he lifts his chin just slightly.  Enjolras smiles grimly.  “We won’t, my friends, because we refuse to demean ourselves by behaving like them.  Instead, we will release our attackers and return them to their masters.  In doing so, we will send a message: you are alive, not because you overpowered us, but because  _we chose to spare your lives_.”

Someone makes a noise of protest, but Enjolras sees only Grantaire.

“Take them away.”

**Author's Note:**

> The name "True Gene" is not mine. It came from a really, really good mutant!AU fic I read on livejournal called ["Fingertips"](http://inkin-brushes.livejournal.com/10156.html) by inkin_brushes. If you're familiar with KPop, with Super Junior in particular, you have to read it!
> 
> Come visit me on [tumblr!](http://besanii.tumblr.com)


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